“Oh, my love, there always have been. The Sublimed have been there for ten billion years, the Elders too; we are just one species, not here for the longest time, then here for a while, then gone again, just like everybody else. But we’ve always known there is something worthwhile in just being ourselves, in being us as well as we can. We’ve found, been given a way, to symbolise this, in the Book of Truth, but the real truth is that every species feels the same thing, and every one is right.
“We all think we’re special, and in a way we are, but, at the same time, that feeling of being special is one of the things that’s common to us all, that unites us and makes us the same as each other. And when that feeling of… specialness is questioned, we feel threatened, naturally. We all do. I do. We have the Subliming drawing near, and we seem to be collecting alien warships, with Culture ships already arrived — two more this evening, the Empiricist tomorrow — and the Liseiden and the Ronte arriving in days, both seeming to think the other is the interloper while we feel they both are. The eyes of the galaxy are on us, and this ought to be a time of quietness and reflection and measured preparation, a time of looking back with gentle pride on all we’ve achieved, and yet… we have a regiment HQ attacked and thousands killed, and an undignified scramble going on over our heads over our spoils, and all sorts of absurd rumours and stories swirling about, but we—”
“I just worry. I worry that we’ve swept ourselves along somehow, got all too excited over something we haven’t thought through, that… that… people have persuaded us to do something we’re still not ready for.”
“Well, Septame Banstegeyn is a very persuasive man, I’ll give you that.”
“I didn’t just mean—”
“No, you did. And I know what you mean. But you have to see that we become… symbols for ourselves. One person can seem to be the instigator, the power behind some… great powerful current within a society, but they’re not necessarily producing it; they may be at the front, and they may have some small, immediate influence over its direction hour by hour or day by day, but really they are swept along by it too, by the force of all those people behind them, by the idea they all represent and are all borne along by. But, Virisse, what talk is this for the bed? We have so few of these opportunities, my love, let’s not waste this one in worry. Let’s sweep each other away, like this… and this… and this…”
“Yes. Yes, you’re right. I’ll be your spoils, fight over—”
“Ow! What—?”
“What?”
“I don’t know. My finger. A jab, like a thorn. My love, there? Of all places? Why, what have you been doing?”
“What? Don’t laugh! No, what? Let me see!”
“Here. My finger. See? Poor finger.”
“Let me see, let me see!”
“Ah, so pleasantly engaged, so sharply interrupted.”
“Let me—”
“Oh. Worth one tiny injury for such a sweet kiss. You make me swoon… Oh, wait a moment, you really are. I really am… swoon. My. My head is quite… quite…”
“No!”
“It’s all right. I’m just, it’s just… Oh… I’m glad I’m lying dow—”
“No, Sef, no! Say…! Oh. Oh, of course; me too. I should. Should have… he… how could…? Oh, the fool…”
“Going dark… What, you too? My love? Have we…? Is this some…? Are we being…? Are we be—?”
“Doesn’t know. Oh, the cruel, the stupid!”
“Not, not feeling… so good. Where’s my — it was here. I need to call — Oh, fuck, I’m really…”
“I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry. Please…”
“Never — it doesn’t… just hold…”
“I’m sorry! I’m so—”
“Just hold…”
“So sorry…”
“Just…”
“So…”
Nineteen
(S -6)
“Wasn’t anything found?”
“Mere traces, Septame. Some form of highly sophisticated, very hi-tech device, already starting to dissolve into her flesh and blood the moment after it had delivered its payloads.”
“Payloads?”
Physician General Locuil nodded. “The first, almost certainly, into the president. The second, into Ms Orpe. Possibly a few seconds apart, perhaps almost at the same time. There is so little left of the device — so little not turned into its constituent molecules, at any rate — it’s hard to tell, but the likelihood is it was something tuned to Sef’s own genes, something that would only activate at her touch. Then, once it had delivered the toxin into her, it would deliver its second payload into the carrier, into Orpe.” Locuil held up his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “To stop her talking, we have to assume. We also have to assume that she knew the device was in there, but didn’t know it would kill the president. She might have thought it was going to drug her, or — given where it was — she might have thought it would, you know, enhance things for her, for both of them. We can’t know.”
The physician general sighed, sat back. He massaged his face with one hand. He sat across the septame’s desk from Banstegeyn. Marshal Chekwri sat nearby; no others were present in the septame’s private study in his town house, though both the marshal and the physician general had staff waiting in an ante-room along with Banstegeyn’s own people, including Jevan and Solbli.
Outside, it was almost dawn.
The two bodies had been discovered by the president’s own security team when her comm bracelet — taken off, lying by the bedside — had finally registered that the local sets of vital signs had altered anomalously. Both women had been beyond saving for many minutes before they were discovered, the fast-acting targeted synthetic neuro-toxins still multiplying within what was left of their brains and nervous systems, even as they gradually dissolved. A medical team of the best people and most exclusive machines had been working all night, trying to work out what had happened.
“But, the thing, this… how would it know to, when to… to activate?” Banstegeyn asked, aiming to sound bewildered without seeming too naively stupid.
“It would be monitoring everything it came into contact with,” Locuil said wearily. “As soon as it sensed any genetic material belonging to the target — the president — it’d arm, check that there was an actual bit of body there to accept the micro-barb, then spring out, deliver. In a way it’s quite old tech, Septame.”
“But it would have to have a sample of… of the…”
“It would need a sample, or rather the results of a sample, of Sefoy’s genetic material. But you could get that almost anywhere, Septame: from a glass, from one of the president’s hairs, from any article of her clothing; you could get that from just having shaken her hand or having brushed her cheek with your own.”
“Everyone she’s ever met throughout her life would be a first-order suspect,” Chekwri told Banstegeyn crisply. She turned to Locuil. “I assume you’re already cooperating with the cops?”
Locuil nodded. “Second call her security people made.”
“Truth is, though,” Chekwri said, “this looks like one of ours.”
“You mean the device that was used?” Banstegeyn said.
Chekwri nodded. “We had stuff like this. Once, long ago.” She flexed her eyebrows. “Back in what you might call the interesting old days. It was all supposed to have been got rid of, but… maybe some of it wasn’t. Maybe somebody kept some of it somewhere. Or kept the knowledge and the means to make it.”
Banstegeyn looked steadily into Chekwri’s eyes as she said this, and the marshal returned his gaze just as levelly.
“Or somebody invented a brand new one,” Locuil said. “The fact remains the president is dead. Not to mention her AdC. Not to mention in… delicate circumstances. But what really matters is, the president is dead. What’s to be done about it?”